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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28801035">A Little Tied Up</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerCrusader/pseuds/QueerCrusader'>QueerCrusader</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Black Sails</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blow Jobs, Bondage, But only in vibes, Cunnilingus, Debt, F/M, Like it may not read comfortably for people who have issues with dubcon, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rope Bondage, but it is consensual</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:34:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,072</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28801035</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerCrusader/pseuds/QueerCrusader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after Eleanor publicly dethrones Charles, as it were.</p><p>Washed up and broke, Charles runs into trouble with some men he owes a debt, who decide their best bet at getting their money back is to dump him on Eleanor's doorstep, presented like a gift-wrapped parcel. But neither Charles nor Eleanor are in the mood to play nice with one another, and while Eleanor starts out on top, Charles soon manages to turn the tide...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eleanor Guthrie/Charles Vane</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Black Sails Holiday Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Little Tied Up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorinaLannister/gifts">Corina (CorinaLannister)</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic does contain a bit of violence, though nothing too graphic, I think, and mentions of drug and alcohol use. The interaction between Charles and Eleanor can at times feel a little dub-con as well, so heads up - but it is established for the reader that this is in fact consensual. Other than that, this is pure smut. Oh, also, brief hints at humiliation and exhibitionism. My receiver, I don't know you or what you like, so I sincerely hope you enjoy this!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“This is the third time, Charles.”</p><p>Eleanor’s gaze is one of steel as she stares him down. He doesn’t even have the fucking decency to look self-conscious, standing there, casual as anything as he asks her for money. <em>Again.</em> She grits her teeth, suppressing the urge to lash out and punch him. “You want money?” she spits. “Fucking go get it yourself. You’re a pirate.”</p><p>At that, something flashes behind Charles’ eyes, making Eleanor’s heart race. He steps closer, but she stands her ground, chin raised defiantly. She knows his moods, his tactics. He doesn’t scare her.</p><p>“You know full well that I’m currently without a crew,” Charles tells her, his voice dropping below its usual already low range, sparking something low in Eleanor’s stomach. “And until Jack figures something out with that scheming little head of his, this is the situation I’m stuck in.”</p><p>“So you decide to spend it gambling?” Eleanor scoffs, refusing to be intimidated by him. “You know what, I’d say surely you’re above that, but that’d be a lie. With all the other bad fucking habits –”</p><p>He’s in her face suddenly, and this time she does recoil a little, remembering the time he returned her punch with twice the strength she’d put into hers. She’s not scared, though. Not really. This is the game they play. She deals a blow, he returns it, and in the end neither of them win, if such a thing is even possible; instead, they are both left winded and high on adrenaline and frustration.</p><p>“And who are you to call me out on my bad habits, hmm?” Charles hums, his voice vibrating in her chest. She can smell cloves, tobacco and rum on his breath, the scent heavy and intoxicating. “You seek out fights more often than I do, and I have to for a living.”</p><p>“You think I don’t?” she replies, attempting to regain some of her haughty tone. “You think I can run Nassau and keep all you sorry fucking lot in line playing <em>nice</em>?”</p><p>Charles huffs, his smile dismissing. “You know, I really don’t care,” he replies then. “That’s politics. I don’t concern myself with that shit.”</p><p><em>Of course you don’t</em>, Eleanor thinks, thinking back to how the <em>Ranger</em> crew tried to fuck over the vote to make Flint captain. That was politics. It was also politics that got Charles knocked out onto the fucking street without a ship or a crew. It seems despite his claims, Charles is struggling to avoid getting wound up in politics these days.</p><p>“In that case, perhaps you’d be so kind to get out of my fucking office,” Eleanor tells him, and there’s a flash of surprise in Charles’ eyes at that. “Because I still have plenty of <em>politics</em> left to busy myself with. Wouldn’t want to be associated with that, now would you?”</p><p>“And my money?”</p><p>“<em>My</em> money,” she spits back. “You think you can come into my office and beg for scraps after I was the one to cause you to be broke in the first place? You come into <em>my</em> office, insulting me, thinking you can just get anything you want if you demand. The third time is <em>not</em> the fucking charm, Charles. I’ve had enough. I could laugh about you coming here about it the last two times, but I’m done. Don’t you fucking dare come back.”</p><p>“What if I actually beg?”</p><p>That stops her in her tracks. She narrows her eyes at him, but the look he sends back is dead serious. Then again, he almost always looks serious. <em>He won’t do it</em>, she thinks. He’d never. That’s the whole <em>point</em> of this stalemate. He’s not getting back <em>shit</em> until he apologises. They’re both too proud.</p><p>“Would you?” she asks.</p><p>“I’m sure you could… persuade me.”</p><p><em>Ah</em>. There it is. He wouldn’t beg for his money, just like Eleanor suspected. He wouldn’t beg for his reputation back, or his crew. He’ll only fight to get those back.</p><p>But in bed?</p><p>She shakes her head. That’s not how their game is played. That’s not who he is, and tempting as it may sound, it’s also not what she wants, deep down. Yes, she would <em>love</em> to get him to beg her for mercy, for respite. She probably could get him there, sweaty and shaking beneath her. He worships her. She could do it.</p><p>But she’s not entirely sure that’s how their game is played, and as furious as the man makes her, there’s something about all this that she… <em>likes</em>.</p><p>In the end, she simply huffs. “Just get out,” she tells him. “Get your own goddamn money.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“I take it she said no?” Jack says when Charles storms into the brothel, his blood still boiling. How does she get him so easily worked up every time? And why does he always come back for more?</p><p>“I take it you don’t have a plan of your own yet?” Charles snaps back. He’s sick and tired of having to look at these two fucking traitors, but right now he wants a smoke, a drink, and a good fuck, and sadly Jack and Anne have holed up in the one hellhole where he can most conveniently find all three.</p><p>He pulls out his coin pouch and checks what he has left. It really is paltry amount, barely enough to live off, let alone get his tobacco, opium and rum with. He growls. He’s not gonna fucking sneak around Nassau’s wrecks and alleyways stealing shit like a common thief. But he can’t just demand shit anymore either. The <em>Ranger</em> name is dead; no-one would cower before him like they used to if he just walked up to people demanding shit. Sure, he could beat what he wants out of them, but he can’t start beating up every merchant in Nassau. It’d become fucking ridiculous. And on an empty stomach, there’s only so many punches he’s willing to throw.</p><p>There’s a couple of men playing dice in the corner, and with a frustrated growl, Charles moves to make his way over. “Charles, don’t,” Jack calls behind him, and he whirls around furiously.</p><p>“You lost the fucking right to have any input in what I fucking do with my money the second you dropped those pearls into the water,” he snarls, pointing an accusing finger at Jack.</p><p>“You’ll lose,” Jack insists calmly, always so fucking calculating with his tone. Charles’ vision is starting to redden as he stalks back over, towering over his rat of an ex-quartermaster. “You’ll lose the last bit of money you have, and then you’ll lose face as the last of your reputation goes down the drain.”</p><p>Credit where credit is due; he only cowers a <em>little</em> as Charles leans right up in his face, ignoring the way Bonny draws her knife beside him. “We’ve already lost face,” Charles tells him. “Don’t you fucking <em>dare</em> give me advice on how to save what little I have left because of <em>your</em> fuck-up. Both of you.” And with that, he whirls back around to stride over to the gamblers in the corner.</p><p>He needs this money. He needs to have <em>some</em> fucking leverage. With it, he can keep his dignity, allow himself to build some reputation again. He hates that this is how things are, but he’s learned to make do with the situation thrust upon him by life and fight his way to the top again, by any means necessary.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>In the end, Jack’s prediction comes true. Charles loses the last bit of money he had, and then some. He bluffed his way into the bet, claiming to have more money than he did, and now he’s not only lost his remaining coin but also indebted himself.</p><p>This is a fight he can’t get out of. It’s brutal, and lasts longer than he’d like, but in the end he stands over them, knuckles scraped raw and his ribs bruised, spitting a glob of bloody spit on the pile of groaning bodies. He leaves the brothel under the screaming of Noonan’s second-in-command, whatever the witch’s name is.</p><p>As he walks down the street, he snatches a freshly-opened bottle of rum from some pathetic bastard’s grip. The man opens his mouth to complain, but when he takes in the battered complexion of Charles Vane, he quickly shuts up. <em>Good.</em> His name still means <em>something</em>, then, Charles thinks. Or perhaps it’s the sight of him, freshly out of a fight he clearly won, since he’s still able to move, looking ready for another round with anyone who stands in his way. God, Charles is so tired of people standing in his fucking way.</p><p>The bottle is empty before he realises it. He’s nearly made it back to his tent on the beach, where he knows a final remaining bottle is waiting for him. He shouldn’t drink it, he knows, since he doesn’t have money for another one and he doesn’t know when he will again, but it’s exactly that which makes him believe he deserves a fucking drink.</p><p>By the time the sun has gone down, Charles’ vision is swimming just a little bit. His injuries are throbbing even through the haze of alcohol, and he’s itching for some opium, but he’s not quite that far gone, yet. He is however intoxicated enough to struggle to get to his feet quickly when three figures appear in his tent, towering over him. They’re not the men he beat up earlier, looking far too ready for another round. Charles knows they’ve brought trouble with them, though. The stench of it is filling his tent. He lifts his fists and widens his stance.</p><p>It’s no use. He’s still battered from earlier, and rather heavily intoxicated to boot. He puts up a fight, alright, but the men soon have him pinned. He struggles a final time, but then someone’s heel connects with his temple, and everything goes black.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When Charles finally stirs, Eleanor feels a muscle in her jaw twitch. She’s been holding back her thoughts ever since the pirate was dumped on her doorstep, hogtied and gagged like a pig ready for roast. Now that he’s waking up, the words are threatening to spill from her lips like a river about to burst its bank.</p><p>Charles lets out a groan and twitches before his eyes open fully. He winces against the light of her candles; must be a hell of a beating he took. It probably doesn’t help that he’s lying uncomfortably on the stone floor, thick rope digging into his muscles. When his gaze finally lands on her, recognition as to where he is hits him, and his eyes narrow.</p><p>“You know what they called me when they dropped you off?” Eleanor tells him, her voice steady despite her exhaustion and frustration. It’s late, and she’s stuck cleaning up Charles’ mess. Again. “They called me a bitch. Which I’m used to, so it’s not like that was an issue for me.” She stands up then, hands flat on her desk to steady her as she leans forward to get a full view of him. “But do you know what they called you?”</p><p>Charles’ jaw juts out, and she can tell from the way his cheeks hollow he’s trying to spit out the gag and failing. It’s a surprisingly satisfying sight.</p><p>“They called you my lapdog,” she tells him. “‘The bitch’s lapdog’. That’s who you are, now, apparently.” Fury flashes on his face, and he strains against his bonds, but Eleanor is in no hurry to untie him. <em>Let him squirm a bit</em>, she thinks. “They told me to do what I do best and squeeze whatever money you owe them out of you, or they will come back and collect from me instead, since you’re apparently my responsibility now.”</p><p>At that, Charles surges up, ignoring the way the rope digs into his injuries. He tries to get onto his knees, but his legs are tied together as well. His eyes are ablaze, though. But Eleanor is unbothered by the sight of it. He’s never been less threatening to her. Instead, she just feels fury. How fucking <em>dare</em> he drag her into his mess?</p><p>She walks around her desk to lean back against it, her arms folded as she looks down at his squirming form. “So what should I do, hmm?” she asks him, her voice finally gaining some grit as the anger threatens to spill over. “You’ve roped me into your gambling debts, disgracing both yourself <em>and</em> me. Do you know what this does to me, Charles? Do you care?”</p><p>She huffs and turns away, lifting up her paperweight to busy herself with the mess of documents on her desk. “This was never meant to be my problem,” she mutters. “I’m not cleaning up this mess for you. When they return, you’ll deal with them yourself.”</p><p>“And how do you suggest I do that, hmm?” she hears behind her after a moment of silence, and her heart stops. <em>How did he…</em> “With what money? You want me to kill them? Here? On your doorstep, in your office?” She can hear the floorboards creak under his boots, and then he’s right there, behind her, his body radiating heat against her back, his breath brushing her cheek, her neck. She shivers, despite the tropical temperature in the room.</p><p>“If that’s what it takes,” she breathes, her reply barely audible. Her pulse is racing. A second ago, he was hogtied on the floor, and she was safe. She’d needled him, humiliated him. Now, he’s free and right behind her, his mood undiscernible. She has no idea what he might do, and her pulse is racing as her mind whirls, looking for a weapon, the nearest exit. But she’s pinned between him and the desk, her pistol locked safely in the drawer on the other side, out of reach, while her paperweight, a potential blunt weapon, is suddenly nowhere to be found.</p><p>His hands land on the desk then, flanking her on both sides and pinning her in place even further. His nose brushes ever so lightly against her skin. “Hmm,” he hums, and she can feel the vibrations of it in her throat. “I assume you thought you could keep me tied up until they arrive?” He chuckles lowly. “But don’t think I’m in the mood to play nice, Eleanor.”</p><p>“How come you’re not still on the floor?”</p><p>“We’re all sailors, here,” he shrugs. “I know my knots as well as the next man.”</p><p>One of his hands suddenly grabs her wrist, and before she knows what’s happening, he’s got the rope around both her wrists, pinning them behind her back. She cries out, but he covers her mouth with his hand, his calluses dragging against her chapped lips. She’s pulled roughly back until her body is flush with his, her head tilted back against his shoulder. She can see him now, can see the dark look in his eyes, and her breath falters.</p><p>“What about you, hmm?” he asks as she struggles in his arms. Even with one hand on her mouth, he manages to keep her in place, corded muscle flexing against her. “Are you gonna play nice?”</p><p>She stills in his grip, then. It’s a fair question. She could tell him to stick it, that this is not how tonight is going to go. Her tone would tell him enough; she’s <em>pissed</em>, and he doesn’t deserve for her to even spit on him right now, let alone fuck him.</p><p>But it’s in moments like these that the blood runs hottest. She’s enveloped by his smell, his heat, his strength. Her breathing is laboured, and she catches herself leaning into him ever so slightly.</p><p>He’s half-hard already.</p><p>And so, rather than call for O’Malley to come in and interrupt whatever is going on and back her up, she says instead: “No, I don’t believe I will.”</p><p>Charles lets out a breath, and with it, the tension that had been growing tight like a cord between them snaps. He reaches up to the collar of the shirt she’s wearing, roughly trying to pull it open to expose her breasts, but Eleanor uses the distraction to wrest free from his grip. She’s often had others to fight for her, but she’s still agile and nimble enough to stand her ground. He grunts in frustration as he tries to grab her, but she twists out of his reach, away from her desk and into the open space of her office. Her hair is already coming undone and her cleavage pulled down dangerously low, but her hands are tied behind her back, unable to fix the state of her appearance.</p><p>There’s a glint in Charles’ gaze, the orange candlelight reflected in the dark of his eyes hypnotising Eleanor. She’s panting a little already, and every muscle in her body is tense as she watches what his next move will be. She may be playing this game, but she’s not intending to make it easy.</p><p>He stalks closer, but then walks past her completely, leaving her a little bewildered. It isn’t until she turns around that she realises what he’s doing. He’s carefully looking out the window, checking to see if there’s anyone about on the street before closing the shutters with a resolute <em>click</em>.</p><p>He’s on her then, reaching to grab her. She nimbly ducks out of the way again, but he’s ready for it this time, stepping on the rope trailing down from where it has bound her wrists together. The move effectively pins her down and nearly causes her to topple backwards, right into his arms. His hands go back to the top of her shirt, but again she struggles, kicking backwards as she frees herself from his grip. There’s the sound of tearing, and when she looks down, she can see the damage Charles has done. Her shirt has torn almost all the way down to her navel, her breasts spilling out. He hums appreciatively at the sight.</p><p>“That was my best shirt,” she spits. He lets out a rough chuckle at that.</p><p>“Not that good if I can tear it like that.”</p><p>“Fuck you.”</p><p>“Pretty sure I’ve improved it, anyway,” he says, ignoring her. “You should have your meetings like that from now on.”</p><p>Eleanor feels her face flush at that. The mental image hits her for a moment; sitting here, right at her desk, her breasts bare as the captains she bargains with stare at them openly, as if they have a right to her body. It’s humiliating.</p><p>And, while she in reality would never want it, would never allow it, the fantasy itself is… surprisingly <em>effective</em>.</p><p>She tries to hide her shuddering breath by spitting at him. He rolls his eyes, seeing straight through her. In two strides he’s on her again, and Eleanor is starting to wish she had a bigger office.</p><p>“Imagine it,” he growls in her ear as she struggles in his grip, pointing her to the desk. “You’d sit there like the queen of fucking Sheba. They wouldn’t dare touch you.”</p><p>She stills in his grip. He’s right, she realises. Lowly crew members might try something just to feel high and mighty, but the captains are clever enough to know she has all of them grabbed by the balls.</p><p>All captains, except Charles. She dethroned him herself. And while it shows how much power she has here in Nassau, it also means she threw away the financial hold she held over him. Even now, when he’s indebted to gamblers, he’s still managed to put her in a vulnerable position.</p><p>“I’d still be exposed,” she manages to say. He hums, brushing his nose against the bare nape of her neck.</p><p>“Like you are now.”</p><p>She shudders. “Fuck that,” she whispers, but Charles gives a tug on her hair, tilting her head back. He sees the look in her eyes, and he smiles.</p><p>“No, I think you like it,” he tells her in a low voice. He shifts his grip until he’s got one hand in her hair and the other on her belt. She tries to wrest free again, but he’s standing on the rope dangling down from her wrists again, and the hand on her belt keeps her pinned against him. She can feel his hard length through his trousers, hot and familiar, and she aches to have more.</p><p>Her belt falls to the floor, and with it her skirts start to slip down on her hips. In a moment of panic she tries to grab it and keep it in place, but her hands are very firmly tied behind her back.</p><p>“You bastard,” she spits, “if you want to fuck me, at least have the decency to take some of your own clothes off too.”</p><p>He heartily laughs at that; it’s a surprisingly nice sound. “You’re fucking impatient, you know that?”</p><p>“Oh, fuck you.”</p><p>He pecks a patronising little kiss on her cheek. “Don’t worry. We’ll get there soon enough.” And with a quick pull, her skirts fall to the floor, leaving her in nothing but her ruined shirt which by now is doing nothing for her dignity.</p><p>“Yeah?” Eleanor presses, trying to turn in his grip to face him. “Now what, if not –”</p><p>Charles gives the rope around her wrists a little yank, keeping her pressed flush against his broad chest. “How ‘bout you stop wriggling and I show you exactly what I have planned for you after all that shit you gave me, hmm?” he tells her. “Maybe, if you fuckin’ behave, I’ll give <em>you</em> something you want too after I’ve had my fun.”</p><p>Eleanor huffs. “As if you wouldn’t anyway,” she mutters with the hint of a smirk. She knows the hold she has on Charles. But he steps away from her, leaving her shirt plastered to her back which has become damp with a light sheen of sweat. She’s suddenly yanked back and down by her wrists as Charles reels in the rope, until she’s forced on her knees. She cranes her head to catch a glimpse from him, feeling <em>extremely</em> vulnerable all of a sudden.</p><p>He appears in her line of sight again, and she glares daggers at him – not that he seems to care. The rope is still dangling between his fingers. As he crouches down in front of her, his gaze meets her, and it’s more effective at pinning her in place than any piece of rope could ever hope to be.</p><p>“You gonna behave for two fucking seconds?” he asks. She lifts her chin defiantly, but stays put. She can’t help but be mildly curious to exactly what he’s planning to do. He huffs.</p><p>“Still so fucking proud,” he mutters. “Whatever makes you comfortable, I guess.” He then reaches around her with the hand still holding the rope while the other slips between her pressed-together knees. She gives him a little smile as he sighs.</p><p>“Will you kindly fuckin’ spread ‘em?”</p><p>“Or what?” Eleanor asks.</p><p>Charles simply rolls his eyes and thrusts his hand forward between clenched thighs, reaching under her for the other end of the rope. Eleanor lets out a gasp as the leather cuff on his wrist rubs roughly against her clit, then again as the rope follows suit.</p><p>He gets to work properly, then. With expert knots he starts wrapping the rope around her, shifting it here and there. It runs between her legs twice, lined along her outer labia on each side. It’s no longer rubbing against her clit, but it <em>is</em> pressing into her groin in a way that makes it uncomfortable for her to sit unless she spreads her knees a little, baring herself further. The rope forms a pattern across her torso, the knots pressing against her stomach, under her breasts, against her clavicle. She still has the tatters of the shirt on, but if Charles is bothered by it, he doesn’t say it. He can always tear it off further if he wants to be rid of it completely, she thinks. For now, he seems content that her breasts and cunt are exposed to the stifling tropical air.</p><p>He’s not making a sound as he works, apart from the occasional thoughtful hum as he reviews a knot. It makes her laboured breathing and little grunts as she’s being yanked and jostled about all the more obvious. It’s almost torturous just to feel his fingers methodically brush against her body as he works, every small touch sending shivers down her spine and making her crave more. Even though part of her skin is covered by the shirt, which is blissfully keeping the rope from roughly digging into her skin in some places, she still stirs under his administrations. All his attention is focused on her; it often is, but there is something that feels so singular and intense about this in a way she’s not often felt before. The pressure of the rope and knots does something to her as well that she’s unfamiliar with. She’s grown damp between her legs as Charles works on her, to the point where she can feel the slick dampen the rope running along her groin.</p><p>Eventually, Charles comes to stand before her to admire his handiwork. The rope runs up from her cunt along her front, with diamond-shaped patterns lining her naked skin. The knots press into soft, sensitive flesh before encircling her breasts, then her throat. It’s not tight, just… <em>there</em>, holding the structure in place, or perhaps as decoration, though if she moves too much she finds the knot at the hollow base of her throat press down a little, like a threat – <em>behave</em>, she can hear Charles’ low voice growl with the sensation. The rope runs down along her back then, reaching her feet, which are tied up behind her in a way that forces her to remain in a kneeling position.</p><p>It feels sturdy, and in a strange way, it feels safe too. She’s forced into an awkward and vulnerable position, but the pressure and touch of the rope is constant and soothing in a way she hadn’t anticipated.</p><p>Still. Eleanor isn’t about to relinquish her pride to admit to feeling comfortable under Charles’ administrations, or tell him he did a good job.</p><p>“So now what? You going to stand there all night staring at me?” she says instead as he gives her an appraising look. He smirks.</p><p>“Maybe I want to,” he replies simply.</p><p>Her eyes drop down to his groin, where his hard-on is straining against the confines of his trousers. She huffs. Somehow she doubts it.</p><p>“You need a better spot,” Charles says then, and for a moment she wants to ask what he means, but then he grabs the rope that runs tautly from her throat down to her feet while placing his free hand directly over her cunt to steady her in his grip before <em>lifting her off the ground</em>.</p><p>She lets out a strangled groan as every pressure point of the rope contraption is activated; it tightens around her breasts, her throat, rubs between her legs. She can feel Charles’ fingers, almost as rough as the rope itself, between her slick lips, and she realises there’s no hiding her wetness from him now. The look he gives her is a smug one, and she wants to punch him – except she is completely incapable of moving. The frustrated strain against her bonds only makes the overwhelming onslaught of sensation worse, and she barely manages to hold back a whimper.</p><p>He dumps her unceremoniously on the couch, and she has to fight to keep from toppling over. “You shit,” she spits, but Charles just lets out a low-rumbling laugh. He grabs her chair then, the large one from behind her desk, and places it across from her. She feels her face heat up with humiliation and fury as he sinks down on it like a king on his throne, legs thrown wide, before buttoning down his trousers and pulling out his cock.</p><p>“You fucking bastard,” she breathes. “Get. <em>Out.</em> Of my <em>chair</em>.”</p><p>“No,” he retorts simply. “You’re welcome to try and make me, though.” He slowly strokes himself and she watches him through hooded eyes. She knows that cock intimately, has had it inside of her many a times. Knows exactly what mindless pleasure it can give her. And he’s just sitting there, pleased as fucking piss, stroking himself. What a fucking <em>waste</em>.</p><p>“Get over here,” she says then. He raises an eyebrow, not moving an inch otherwise.</p><p>“<em>Now.</em>”</p><p>“I’ve never taken an order from you in my fucking life, you think I’m gonna start now with you tied up like that?”</p><p>Eleanor lets out a harsh breath, feeling something whither within her at what she’s about to do.</p><p>“<em>Please</em>,” she spits.</p><p>“Hmm. Better,” Charles concedes. He sits up a little, but only takes his shirt off. The limited candlelight bounces off his skin like he’s a Greek statue, every ridge and muscle cut in deep shadows. “Try again.”</p><p>“I…” Eleanor steadies herself with another breath. She <em>hates</em> begging. “I want you,” she tells him then. “I want to taste you.”</p><p>“Taste me… how?”</p><p>“I want your fucking cock on my tongue, now stop being so fucking pedantic,” she snaps. He barks out a laugh, but the sound is hoarser than usual, and she can see him twitch in his own grip.</p><p>He stands up slowly, fluidly, like a jaguar stalking its prey. She feels small all of a sudden, even with her elevation. He stops right before her, and she realises that the angle is wrong. If she’d still been on the floor, she probably would’ve been at the perfect height. But on the couch, she’s several inches too high.</p><p>“Think you can reach?” he asks with a grin. She wants to spit at him. Instead, she cranes her head.</p><p>It’s no use. She can barely lean forward before the knot at her throat bites into her skin and increases its threatening pressure. She lets out a frustrated groan.</p><p>“Let me help,” he smirks as he places one boot on the couch, bringing his groin closer to her face.</p><p>“Fuck you,” she retorts, but it <em>does</em> help. She leans in again, and this time she can get close enough to lick a stripe along his shaft. He lets out a satisfied hum, and she goes to work.</p><p>Eleanor isn’t too bothered by the taste. It’s bad, yes, but it reminds her of the sea; salty and bitter and strong. She loves the shape of him against her tongue, loves feeling him twitch under her administrations, the sounds he makes. Charles is a <em>noisy</em> lover. It’s easy to know exactly what he likes and what he doesn’t, because he always lets you know, either with words or with simple sound.</p><p>By some small mercy he doesn’t grab her hair to force her mouth on him. Instead he throws his head back and groans as she does all the work. It could be degrading, but instead, Eleanor feels <em>powerful</em>. She only manages to take the tip of him in her mouth because of the angle, but she knows exactly what he likes, know to play him like a fiddle with nothing but her tongue and lips.</p><p>When his hips start to stutter and form actual thrusts, he carefully pulls away, leaving her with glistening wet lips, a little thread of spit connecting her to the dark swollen tip of his cock before breaking. She feels almost a little heady, not sure when she slipped away from obstinate, stubborn and proud into… <em>this</em>, whatever this might become. She has to shake her head a little to clear it.</p><p>Charles’ gaze on her meanwhile has changed, too. It’s no longer as smug as it was; now, there is a hint of awe. <em>He loves me</em>, she realises with sudden, startling clarity. She knows it, of course, is constantly aware of it. It gets in the way one time while another she abuses it for control over him. But every now and then, she catches a glimpse of the way he looks at her, and is hit with the rawness of it, and what the feeling of it does to her.</p><p>She lifts her chin, feeling just a little proud, if not almost fond, and he smiles, shaking his head. “Always so fucking proud.”</p><p>He sinks to his knees then, tugging her to the edge of the couch. Now <em>he</em> is the one with his face at crotch height, and her breath hitches at the sight. “So I’ve behaved, then?” she asks. He huffs amusedly, his breath ghosting over her wet folds, and her mouth falls open a little.</p><p>“Yes,” he mutters. “You’ve behaved.”</p><p>He licks a stripe up the length of her folds, and she finally lets her head drop back and lets out a moan.</p><p>Charles might not seem like it, but he loves giving almost as much as he loves receiving. He eagerly starts lapping at her cunt, his thumbs brushing against where the rope digs into her skin. It’s an overload of sensation, and Eleanor soon finds herself panting, her hips thrusting ever so slightly against his stubble. He plunges his tongue into her, fucking her shallowly before circling and flicking against her clit again. It’s the sweetest torture.</p><p>“Charles – Charles, fuck, I’m gonna –”</p><p>“Then do it,” he orders her, his rumbling voice vibrating straight into her core. “I wanna taste it. Come on, do it. <em>Do it.</em>”</p><p>With a hoarse cry she comes. It rushes over her like a tidal wave, has her shaking in her bonds as her hips thrust against his tongue, his lips, his stubble.</p><p>When she finally comes to a little, he’s shifted to sit back on his haunches, his arms wrapped around her waist. As she sees the hungry look in his eyes, she realises faintly that he hasn’t come yet. Before she’s fully aware of what’s happening, he’s lifted her up again, only to slot his own body under her. He lies down on the couch with her straddling him. He awkwardly managed to pull his trousers off completely and tosses them aside before guiding her hips over his cock. She sinks down with a shuddering moan, still incredibly sensitive from her orgasm, not to mention the mild beard-burn.</p><p>They move in mismatched rhythm, she still in a haze while he’s getting close to his own release, his hips desperately thrusting. He looks beautiful like this, his hair spread across the pillow, eyes dark yet reverent, his jaw glistening with her release. She wants to lean down and lick it off, but the fucking rope keeps her upright, only capable of riding him. He keeps one hand on her hip to guide her rhythm, but the other snakes behind her to where it runs between her cheeks. He tugs at it a little, and the lengths of rope on either side of her cunt tighten, pressing her lips together against the shaft of his cock as it pistons in and out of her. She lets out another haggard moan, and his eyes shine while he lets out a pleased groan of his own.</p><p>It doesn’t take long after that. She comes again, the sensation wrung from her as she convulses above him, before he pistons up one final time and comes with a lengthy groan of his own. She collapses into the structure of the rope, holding her steady.</p><p>He carefully helps her lift off him after a moment. They’re both covered in sweat and other fluids, but Charles has never been too fussed. He ignores cleanliness for the sake of untying her, going through each knot with great tenderness and care. Eleanor is amazed at how they got here, at how they always end up here after even the roughest of foreplay. At how <em>reverent</em> Charles can be. At the intense love she feels in moments like this, even after all the fighting.</p><p>She eventually collapses into his arms, letting him just hold her close. She’ll have to sneak down in his shirt closer to morning to grab a fresh pair of clothes and freshen up. He’ll have to face the debtors, perhaps even cause a scene. He might break some of her furniture. Right now, she doesn’t really care.</p><p>She’ll deal with it all in the morning. She always does.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Feel free to say hi to me on <a href="https://queer-crusader.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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